"Sounds great."
Bill handed me four scorecards and pencils and told us to take any two carts that we wanted from the bunch sitting off to the side.
"Have a good round," Bill said, surprisingly cheery.
I didn't answer, and we all walked over to the carts. Lee and Tori strolled over by themselves, and I walked with Imogen.
"Did you see that?" she said.
"What?" I asked.
"The appointment book?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I had tried to sneak a peek at the book, but Bill was too busy scribbling for me to get a good look. I was right in his direct line of sight. It would have looked suspicious if I inched closer with my prying eyes. After all, why would I have wanted to get closer to a guy who had punched me in the face the other day?
"No, I couldn't see a thing" I said.
Imogen had clearly seen something. She was chomping at the bit. At the very least relishing our brief moment alone to disclose what she had spied.
"Well, I did," she said.
We walked slowly toward the carts.
"And," I said.
"Their names weren't in the book," she said.
That shocked me. Bill definitely knew Endicott. And Endicott knew Bill. Their little charade of ignoring each other was just that, a show. But how did they know each other? And why had Bill been covering up Lee's identity? It was all confirming my suspicion that Bill was involved in Carl's murder. What Lee Endicott had to do with it all remained unclear. At least for the time being.
"What?" I said.
"Not in the book," she said. "Bill purposely left it out."
"I wonder if it's in the main computer," I said.
"Who knows? Probably not."
"I know how we can check," I said.
"How?"
We were just about at the carts, so I had to wrap this conversation up.
"I'll check my bill. If we get charged for a foursome, then it's in the computer. If not, then he's covering something up."
Imogen didn't have enough time to respond as we met up with Lee and Tori. Lee had already hopped in the driver's seat of one of the carts.
"Max," he called. "You're with me. C'mon."
He waved me over, and I strapped my clubs onto the back of the cart. I jumped into the passenger seat, and away we went toward hole number one.
"Nothing like an early morning tee off," Lee said.
"It's a little early for me," I said.
"Not a morning person, huh?"
"I'm a night owl," I said. "Always have been."
"Funny, I'm a morning person. Early bird catches the worm and all," he said.
What did this guy have to do with Carl's death? I was determined to bring it up and feel out Lee's answer. The question was when? I had thought the twelfth hole would be the perfect place to broach the subject.
"So, where do you usually play?" I asked.
I wanted to fish for some information. Namely, had he really visited this course before? Specifically, on the day Carl was murdered.
"I don't get the chance very often," he said. "But when I do, I usually end up playing in Palm Beach."
"Lucky you," I said. "Do you travel down there much?"
"I've got a number of clients down in Florida. So I'm down there quite often."
"Gotta show your face," I said.
"That's the way it works. Everyone wants to make sure the ship is sailing along smoothly. Most people like doing that in person," he said.
"Hey, who would turn down a free dinner and a round of golf? I want your job," I said.
Lee laughed.
"I can't complain."
We made it to hole one, right behind the ladies. Imogen had already placed her tee in the grass right by the blue markers. She played the blues. She was that good. She never teed off from the ladies tee.
"Ladies first," I called out.
It was clear that both of the ladies had taken it upon themselves to start this round without us there.
Lee laughed. Then under his breath made the comment to me, "I'm used to it."
I whispered back to Lee, "Watch this."
Imogen had set herself. Brought her driver slowly back and then exploded, driving her club through the ball. Her form was perfect. Lee and I followed the ball as it traveled what must have been 250 yards, straight as an arrow down the fairway, until it found its resting place in the direct line of sight of the flag.
"Holy shit," Lee said to me.
"Told you," I said. "She's something else."
"I might as well fork over the 500 now and save myself the embarrassment."
"I thought you said Tori played," I said.
"That was thirty years ago!"
Tori set up from the woman's tee. Her swing was pretty, balanced and smooth. When she struck the ball we all watched it sail through the sky and land smack dab in the middle of the fairway. Unfortunately, it was about 100 yards behind Imogen's ball.
"Cash or check," I said to Lee.
Lee shot, and then I did. My ball landed somewhere around Imogen's, and Lee managed to get the ball about twenty-five yards from his wife's. This round had disaster written all over it. For the Endicotts. On the plus side, Imogen and I would be riding together for a good amount of time during each hole. That was, if what had happened so far was any indication of the Endicotts' golf prowess.
Imogen called me over, and I hopped in her cart. Passenger side. How I had become the designated passenger for this round was beyond me. I liked driving.
"See you on the green," I called out to the Endicotts.
Lee waved and walked over to his wife who was already behind the wheel waiting for him.
"Carl worked with Lee, and they were close," Imogen said, stepping on the gas.
"Interesting," I said. "I'm going to start asking questions on the twelfth hole. See if I can catch him in some sort of lie."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know. But something tells me Lee's got something to do with all of this. But what he did is the part that still needs some figuring out."
Imogen agreed, and she also noted that she thought Bill and Lee knew each other as well. As we pulled up to my ball, I hopped out and shot. Landed right on the edge of the green. I met Imogen by her ball.
"Now, watch and learn Max," she said.
Then she proceeded to hit the ball with such precision that it landed about six inches from the cup.
"I'll tell you what," she said. "As a consolation prize, I'll let you drive to the green."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Endicotts were terrible golfers. Tori may have played in college, but it had become obvious that the two of them were on an equal footing. And that firmly planted them at an intermediate level. But it appeared that they were having a good time. And having fun is what golf is supposed to be all about. Imogen would have laughed if I told her that theory. Golf was the most frustrating sport that I had played, and I spent more time throwing my clubs around the course than a toddler throwing toys in a playroom. I wasn't proud of that fact, and to be honest I had chilled out over the past few years. When I had a bad round these days, I usually just cursed under my breath and banged my club into the grass. Progress.
Because we were kicking the Endicotts' asses, Imogen and I had plenty of time to chat during each hole. Lee and I would then hook up after the hole and drive to the next together. This was more than a round of golf—it had also been a fishing expedition for me. I was sure Lee felt the same way. He was fishing for a two-million-dollar check. And he was hell-bent on getting me to fork it over by the eighteenth hole. He'd even endure a terribly embarrassing round of golf to accomplish that goal.
We had discussed nothing of any importance for eleven holes. Lee didn't broach the money, and I didn't bring up Carl or Bill for that matter. But that would all change shortly as we approached the twelfth.
"This is one of my favorites," I said.
"This hole?"
"Yeah. It's challenging."
<
br /> Lee looked at me from the driver's seat as we pulled up to the hole to tee off. I tried to glean any information that he might be hiding under that leather skin and pearly white veneers.
"That's the last thing that I need, a challenging hole," he said.
I laughed.
"You'll be fine."
"It doglegs to the right, right?" he asked.
How did he know that? The dogleg was where Carl had been killed. By the sand trap.
"Right," I said.
Lee got out of the cart and pulled his driver out of his bag as we waited for the ladies to tee off.
"You going to that art auction?" he asked
He caught me by surprise. I was still thinking about his dogleg comment. I wanted to know more about that. He had changed the subject. He must have known that he had slipped. That he had given himself away.
"What auction?" I asked.
"The one coming to Delmar," he said. "Tori and I are avid art collectors. Rumor has it this one is going to be big."
"Oh, I wasn't aware there was one coming," I said.
I lied. How did Lee know about the art auction? I was sure that the information was not leaked to the public. The only people who knew anything about the auction were Alese, the Delmar board, Imogen, and I. That was it. But Endicott knew. How?
He chuckled nervously.
"Oh, was that private information?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Nice to see you're more plugged into Delmar that I am."
"Oh, a friend just happened to mention it to me. Probably was mistaken," he said. "Looks like you're up."
A friend had mentioned it to him? What friend? Someone on the inside had mentioned it to him, and he was now forced into trying to play it off. Was he connected to Alese? To the board? He certainly had not heard the information from Imogen or me. Who had leaked the information?
Imogen smacked the ball so far that it might have gone 300 yards. Jesus Christ, she was amazing. I should have really told her to ditch this private investigating thing and try out for the LPGA. Tori hit the ball her normal 150 yards straight as an arrow, and Lee did about the same. Then I hooked the ball about 250 yards off to the edge of the fairway. Imogen and I got back into the cart. Me at the wheel.
"Lee mentioned the art auction," I said.
Imogen looked shocked.
"What? How would he have known about that?" she asked.
"I have no idea. Someone told him. That's for sure. It's not something you make up."
"Bloody well right someone told him. Who?"
"Alese?"
"Do they know each other?" she asked.
"I have no idea, my love. The board?"
"That makes more bloody sense. Someone on the board might have invested in Endicott."
"True. Someone spilled the beans. And it's probably someone from the board. Big mouths. Why is it so hard to keep a damn secret?" I asked.
"Because they are usually so juicy you just can't help yourself, and you want to tell someone."
"That was a rhetorical question, my dear. But I'm glad you tackled it," I said as I stopped the cart.
Imogen walked out and grabbed her five iron. Stepped up to her ball and hit it right onto the green.
"Why don't you concentrate on your game instead of making sarcastic comments?"
"You didn't really need to say anything. That shot shut me right up," I said.
"I'll wave to you on my way to the green," she said.
I stood by my ball, squared up, and took a swing. The ball landed directly in the sand trap. Almost identical to where Carl's ball had landed.
Imogen laughed. My blood started to simmer. That was a terrible shot. I lifted my club up in a sudden fit of golf rage and almost plowed it straight into the ground, but I caught myself. It wasn't a bad shot after all. In fact, it was a perfect shot. I started walking over to the ball as Imogen stepped on the gas in the cart.
"Nice shot," she shouted to me as she drove on.
She agreed. I walked to my ball slowly, waiting for the Endicotts to join me. One of them would end up close to me and my ball. It was the perfect setting. Returning to the scene of the crime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I stood in the spot where Carl had lain face down with a slit throat. Nothing remained. No trace of the blood. No trace of the man who lost his life on this course. Just a perfectly manicured fairway, sand trap, and rough.
After a few moments I saw a small white ball come flying my way. It landed right off to the side of the trap. That was probably Tori. I waited, and then the second white ball came flying from around the bend, landing on the fairway. Nice shot, Lee, I thought.
The cart drove onto the fairway, Lee at the wheel, dropping Tori off at her ball on the fairway. Then he drove toward me.
"It got you too, huh?" Lee asked.
"I hooked it," I said. "Now I have to deal with this."
I tried to read Lee's face as he parked the cart. There was nothing telling in his smile as he chuckled at my comment.
"I've played this hole so many times, and still I end up in the trap," I said.
"Tell me about it. It doesn't even help if you know it's coming," he said.
He had been here before. I felt it. He slipped again. He had been on the course. I was convinced. The day Carl was killed? That I didn't know, yet. But he had walked this course. Maybe even played this hole. He had lied. There had to be something behind that. Some reason that he wouldn't tell me the truth.
"At least you're not in the trap. You've got a clear shot at the hole. I'm bogged down over here," I said.
"Looks like I've got a leg up on this shot," he said.
"You think so?" I said. "Care to make it interesting?"
He looked at me with a glimmer in his eye. This was his opening. He would broach the investment subject guised as a bet.
"What do you have in mind?" he asked.
"How about a grand on the rest of this hole. Just me and you."
"You're a gambling man, huh, Max?"
"Only when it's a sure thing," I said.
He laughed.
"The only sure thing is a high return on my investments," he said. "Other than that, there's no sure thing."
I laughed. But it was disingenuous.
"You don't say," I said.
"How about this, if you win you get two thousand dollars. If I win, we have a serious conversation about you and Imogen investing in Endicott Financial. With a good chance of a yes at the end of it."
There it was. He had put it out there. I couldn't turn this bet down. I was suckered into it, and it was all my fault. The only thing I could do was win this hole.
"You got it," I said.
"Great," he said. "Farthest ball is first."
That was me. I pulled out my club. Dug a few inches behind my ball. Brought the club back and then swung. The club dug through the sand about an inch behind the ball and lifted it out of the trap sailing toward the green. When it landed, it positioned itself on the fringe of the green. It left me with about a thirty-foot putt, uphill then downhill. Not what I was going for. Not even close.
I wanted to break my club in half. Smash it on to the ground. Better yet, wrap it around Endicott's neck. But I didn't. I kept all of my anger inside and smiled.
"Shit," I said out loud.
I couldn't keep it all bottled up.
"Not bad from the trap, Max," he said.
"Not good either," I said. "You're up, Mr. Endicott."
"Mr. Endicott? You trying to rattle me, Max?"
"Now why would I do that? Just make sure it's a good one, Lee."
"Now I know you're trying to rattle me."
He stood next to his ball and swung. The ball jumped off his club and sailed in a perfect arch toward the flag. When the ball hit the ground, it stopped dead on a dime about one foot from the hole.
"Shit," I said again.
"Does tomorrow at nine in the morning work for you?" he asked.
"Shit."<
br />
"Hop in. I'll drive us up to the green."
I joined Lee in the cart.
"Tough luck," Lee said.
Bastard. I still had a shot. I could sink that putt. And Lee could fall apart and miss his tap in. But it didn't look good. I knew I performed well under pressure. I'd been in these sort of situations a number of times. I didn't crack. I could channel the pressure into focus and accomplish whatever it was that I wanted to when push came to shove. Unfortunately, Lee struck me as the same sort of person.
"Good shot," I said. "Were you playing possum this whole time?" I asked, joking.
"I wish I could say I was, Max. I just got lucky," he said.
"Good timing," I said.
He dropped me at my ball.
"See you at the flag," he said. "Good luck."
I got down on a knee and surveyed the shot. I was so screwed. I stood up, got in a putting stance, and gave the ball a good whack. Then I watched as time slowed down to a crawl. The ball made its way up the hill with just enough force to reach the top. The ball slowed, then picked up momentum as it rolled down the hill, curving to the right. It looked as if the ball would miss the cup completely, but then it rode the slope that broke left directly for the flag. Imogen, who had already putted out, was standing by the flag and lifted it as the ball rolled toward the cup. Once there, it rolled around the lip, and then, like water going down the drain, the ball fell into the cup.
"Yes!" I screamed, jumping in the air.
"Good shot," Imogen yelled.
"Great shot, Max," Lee said.
The pressure was on. He had to sink this tap in.
"Don't miss," I said.
Was that a dick move? Yes. I couldn't help it.
I'm a competitive person.
To Lee's credit, he ignored my comment. He lined up with the ball and looked. Stared at the hole, then back at his ball, then back toward the hole. The putter moved back and then forward like a pendulum. It struck the ball, and it started on its path. It headed toward the hole, but it looked like its path was a bit off to the left. His ball came in contact with the lip of the cup and then, like a boomerang, swung around the perimeter of the cup where it was spit out about two inches from the hole. Lee had blown it.
The Killing Green Page 11